


River Below

by Beastmouth



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-09-14 17:24:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9196004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beastmouth/pseuds/Beastmouth
Summary: Eddie and Chris cut class and have a burger. Then they hang out. Then Eddie crashes at Chris' place. Then Chris lends him his Letterman jacket.





	1. Thanks

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is best read with Billy Talent blaring in the bg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's during those times where he can't say no -- doesn't want to say no -- because even if he's kind of an ass and doesn't really care about too many things, Chris isn't a bad friend.

Chris wasn't really one to skip classes. He tried not to, because the trouble he'd receive from his mom was hardly ever worth it. The only other kids he would generally hang out with were his buddies on the football team, and they were rarely in his classes, and honestly what's the point of cutting all by yourself? That just seemed sad.  
But ever since he'd made friends with Eddie, he would have at least some reason to. Oftentimes when Eddie would ask him along, he'd say no. Again because it's hardly ever worth the hassle.

  
But sometimes,  
                     sometimes Eddie wouldn't even ask, he'd just come up to him and say _Let's go_ , and he'd have that _look_ on his face. The one that's all closed off and guarded; the one that makes his eyes especially cold and hard.

  
It's during those times where he can't say no -- doesn't want to say no -- because even if he's kind of an ass and doesn't really care about too many things, Chris isn't a bad friend.

  
So they get into Chris' car and drive off into town. Away from campus, away from whatever's put that look on Eddie's face because in that moment, what does it matter?  
Chris isn't quite on Eddie's level of 'I don't care' but he can will himself there occasionally. He can do it today. They don't really talk during the drive. Eddie sits slumped in the passengers seat with his knees pressed against the dash, legs bent awkwardly.

  
He put his feet on the dash once. Chris told him off for it because that was his dad's car, and that means something. The lanky teen had scoffed, asked what's the big deal, acted like he didn't care -- but he didn't do it again. Had enough respect for Chris to not want to piss him off or smear his bad attitude all over precious things .  
Chris swerves into the parking lot of that one burger joint at the edge of town. It's a little run down and doesn't even have a drive-thru, but that just makes it all the more perfect. They can just strut inside and intimidate the cashier with their impossible heights and grouchy looks.

  
Eddie takes a seat at a booth right away, the same one every time, and leaves Chris with the task of ordering for them. The food is just a bonus, not the sole purpose, even though they can pretend it is. But who wouldn't rather have a greasy, sloppy burger full of deliciousness than listen to some old croon drone on about this and that.  
When Chris sits down across from Eddie and puts their trays down, Eddie lifts his brows at the feast before them.

  
"I don't have any money," he says.

  
"I didn't ask you to pay me," Chris responds, helping himself to a fry.

  
"You didn't have to buy me food."

  
"I know."

  
There's silence for a moment, Eddie hesitating before slowly unwrapping the soggy paper wrapped around his burger. They eat quietly for quite a while, neither of them saying anything, neither of them looking at anything in particular.  
After a while, Eddie speaks up again.

  
"Why does shit have to be like this?" he asks nobody.

  
Chris shrugs. He doesn't bother asking what Eddie's talking about; he's never clear about what's on his mind. Doesn't offer any details or explanations, just throws things out so he won't have to sit on them anymore.

  
"I'm fucking sick of it."

  
The teenager sighs heavily, frowning at what remains of his fries like they offend him somehow.

  
"Do you ever actually go to class?" Chris asks suddenly, mostly because he feels Eddie's not the kind of kid that would like your regular old sympathy. Would probably sock him one for it, and of course he'd fight back, then they'd end up with a scene in the middle of the diner.

  
Eddie looks up with surprise.

  
"Looks who's talking," he retorts, flabbergasted. "You're here cutting, too."

  
"Only because you looked so miserable."

 

Anger flares across Eddie's face and he makes a move like he's about to stand up, but he pauses and slumps back into his seat with a faint chuckle.

  
"You're an ass."

  
Chris grins widely at the fact that he successfully distracted Eddie from his mood, tossing a fry at him which he skillfully smacks out of the air. Soon enough they're leaving the establishment, going back to Chris' car but not getting back in. Eddie lights a cigarette while Chris leans against the door on the driver's side with a thoughtful frown.

  
"Can't wait to get crap for skipping," he says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his Letterman. From somewhere behind him he hears Eddie kick a can. It's loud and obnoxious as it clutters off into the distance.

  
"Tell her I twisted my ankle and you took me to the nurse," he offers casually. Chris barely turns to look at him, just shakes his head.

  
"I'm not going to lie to my mom, Ed. Not that she'll believe me anyway."

  
The boy scoffs.

  
"And here I thought as the local bad influence I'd be an easy scapegoat."

  
Chris rolls his eyes. He's so god damn dramatic. Eddie stomps out his cigarette and gets into the passenger's seat, and it's time to stop disappearing and head back to school. Eddie takes off almost immediately, just giving Chris a casual wave over his shoulder as he goes. Most likely to go take out his frustrations on some poor freshman.  
Chris sighs and lets him go. He's got far better things to do than bother with whatever problems that kid is going to cause for himself. Like attending his next class and trying to minimize the damage, for example. If he got kicked off the football team for having too many absences he wouldn't know what to do with himself.  
As he's going through his locker, his pocket buzzes once and he pulls out his phone to see a text from Eddie.

  
          **From: Ed**  
**2:21 PM**

          **thanks**

  
Chris can't help a victorious smile as he puts it back in his pocket, closing his locker and heading for class. Maybe it wasn't that much of time wasted. Not that Eddie was bad company, not at all -- at least when he wasn't taking his anger out on Chris, that is. Still, they were friends, and being a little sentimental sometimes wasn't a bad thing. You gotta look after your own.

  
He may be an ass, and he may not care about too many things,  
                                                                                         but he's not a bad friend.


	2. Like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neither of them are particularly uncomfortable with each other, that's never been a problem, but Eddie's skin feels too tight and his veins too raw. There's a tension sizzling under the surface and he keep glancing over at the other like if he looks at him enough times he'll figure out what the matter is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i decided to make this multi-chapter -- not necessarily a running story as much as it is just moments with these two boys

The smoke from Eddie's cigarette is near indiscernible from the cloudy gray sky. The teen bounces his leg impatiently, boredom eating away at him while he stares up at the sky. The dingy old couch he sits on is frankly quite nasty, and probably riddled with all sorts of nasty little creature with how long it's been sitting in their front yard but he doesn't quite care enough to sit somewhere else.

  
It's a couch, so it's whatever.

  
The shouting from inside has long since stopped, but he doesn't find it within himself to want to go back in. Another drag of his cigarette, and he probably shouldn't be smoking in such proximity to his parents but today is one of those days where he cares especially little about the consequence of anything.  
He lifts his head and lets it fall back down against the couch, again and again. He's so incredibly bored, but rather than coming up with things to do all he can think about is how bored he is. How tired he is. It's boring _boring boring_ \--

  
In his peripheral he sees someone approaching, rapidly, and hears the tell-tale rumble of wheels on concrete. He figures it's just one of the neighboring kids about to whiz past him and thinks about tripping them for an easy laugh, but they stop. Eddie doesn't bother to look, is just about to open his mouth and declare that whatever they're looking for he doesn't have any when he's caught by surprise;

  
"Hey," Chris says, and finally Eddie does look up. He thought Chris didn't know where he lived. Had hoped he didn't.

  
"Wow, it's you," he replies with a dull voice. "The hell you doing here?"

  
The larger teen looks unimpressed with his less than enthusiastic greeting and comes closer. After a glance at the couch he decides to keep standing.

  
"Looking for you, obviously."

  
Eddie scoffs and gets to his feet, flicking his cigarette butt and grinding it into the ground with his shoe.

  
"How'd you know where to look? Don't recall telling you where I live," he mutters, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

  
"You didn't; I just sort of figured somewhere around here oughta be right," Chris explains with a shrug. He inclines his head towards the couch and adds, "Saw you sitting here so, jackpot, I guess."

  
"Great," Eddie says, the opposite of thrilled, and proceeds to stalk off away from his house. He expects Chris to follow him, which he does thankfully. Chris doesn't need to meet his parents, doesn't need the wide-eyed stiff fretting of his stepmother and even less the overbearing smothering presence of his father. It's honestly the last thing Eddie wants to happen because there's a very specific place in his life he wants Chris to stay in.

That place is somewhere that's supposed to be far, far away from here.

  
"Where we goin'?" Chris asks from behind him, followed by the crash of his skateboard being dropped to the ground. Eddie glances over his shoulder to see him slowly rolling up to his side.

  
"We're getting sodas," Eddie answers and faces ahead again as he trudges along, hands deep in his pockets. There's a hole in the left one and he keeps slipping a finger through it, to his everlasting annoyance.

  
There's a small corner store right by the gas station, but you could call it a box and you wouldn't be wrong. It's where he goes for his cigarettes and whatever else he might need -- mostly because it's close by, not to mention cheap and open late at night. The guy who runs it is a shaggy-looking old man with gnarly teeth and a voice like he's gargled glass and whiskey all his life. His name's Jerry something; Eddie can never remember his last name.

  
When the teens approach the crummy little shop, Jerry leans out of the window in the front and gives his lopsided smile which squints one eye almost shut.  
"Why hello there, Eddie, ya fixin' for a pack?" he rasps, then nods towards Chris. "One for you too, kid?"

  
"I don't smoke," Chris says simply. Eddie shakes his head and steps up to the window.

"Just pepsi," he says and scrunches his face at the wheezy laugh Jerry cracks up with right in his face.

"Bout time ya got yaself a good influence to set ya straight, kid," he says, disappearing into the store while his cackling descends into coughs.

  
"Don't count on it," Eddie replies with a slight smirk. He feels the buzzed hairs on his neck prickle, and he swears he can feel Chris' green eyes on him. He's just about to turn and snap at him when Jerry comes back with two barely cool cans of pepsi.

  
Eddie digs through his jeans before his friend can do any sort of move towards paying and slams a few crumbled bills on the small counter. Jerry counts them with a rather theatrical frown of concentration, then raises a bushy eyebrow at Eddie.

  
"'s a dollar short, kid," he says. Embarrassment seizes Eddie by the throat and he's patting every pocket he has in a desperate search for cash that isn't there.  
"Shit, fuck, okay, just let me--" He's cut off by that same grating wheeze and a slap on the shoulder.

"I'm fucking with ya, Eddie. Now scram, ya punk. And stay out of trouble."

  
A little ruffled and vaguely humiliated, Eddie merely grunts at the old man and grabs the cans of sodas. Shoving one into Chris' hands he leads them onward, heading for town.

"Interesting guy," Chris comments, and there's a something to his voice that tickles Eddie's gut. That slight uptick of amusement, the one that almost makes his words a purr.

  
"You could say that," is the muttered response. "His name's Jerry. Was in the Navy or something like that, or so he says - could be straight bullshit for all I know."

  
They keep walking -- or in Chris' case, skating -- into town under an almost but not quite awkward silence. Neither of them are particularly _uncomfortable_ with each other, that's never been a problem, but Eddie's skin feels too tight and his veins too raw. There's a tension sizzling under the surface and he keep glancing over at the other like if he looks at him enough times he'll figure out what the matter is.

  
He comes up short, every time, and he remains tongue tied and frustrated and they've made it to the edge of the park. That's where they stop.

  
"What're you doing here," Eddie asks again, but it doesn't sound like a question. His brows are furrowed with a sort of confusion that he can't pinpoint in the whirlwind of strange in him.

  
"Just wanted to hang out," Chris says and he's always so casual, like nothing Eddie says or does is too much or the wrong thing or anything like that. Even when they fight, going so far as to even throw punches it never gives him the impression that he's stepping out of line. It's just things that happen and Eddie can't figure it out.  
"Why? You have other friends," he says. Another shrug, more casualties, more just being cool. He doesn't care, doesn't bat an eye.

  
"I like hanging out with you."

  
He's not sure how to take that, but he drinks it all up. Soaks in it for a good long moment and it's a little overwhelming because friendship is still strange to him; always been at an arm's length but here's Chris and he keeps pushing against the firm hand keeping him at a distance. The image of an older kid sneering at his ' _being starved for attention_ ' pops into his mind and he frowns.

  
"Whatever, man." It's not what he wants to say, not how he wants to sound, but he doesn't know what the right words or tones are, doesn't know how to fit his hands to hold it so he just drops it. Casual, but in the wrong way.

  
"Hey." Chris steps closer, and he makes it be not the wrong way, yet again. "I like hanging out with you," he repeats, more firmly this time, and nudges his side with his knuckles. To his own surprise, Eddie doesn't flinch away. The reflex doesn't show up and make things weird, and he blinks at the other boy's touch.

  
Eddie turns away and fumbles with his half-crushed pack of cigarettes in his pocket and fishes one out. There's a long stretch of silence broken only by the sound of Eddie's lighter and his heavy exhale billowing smoke. He doesn't know what to make of himself, or of Chris.

  
"I like hanging out with you, too," he says, finally, and it's the right words and the right tone. He can feel Chris' smile, can picture it in his head and there's that prickle in his gut again and he hates it. It makes him feel vulnerable, but somehow he thinks he could be okay with that, at least a little bit.

  
Something presses against his finger, squeezes into his grip around the pepsi and hooks around his pinky. He looks down and sees their fingers hooked together and the way it makes him feels makes him want to punch something. He looks up for lack of ways to react and their eyes meet, green ones tentatively hopeful gazing back at him. It's disgusting. It's lovely. It's comforting and dreadful all at once.

  
Eddie exhales desperately, letting out a breath he didn't realize he's been holding and continues smoking his cigarette.  
They stand there, fingers hooked, back in that tense sizzling silence again, but different.  
Eddie doesn't know what their friendship is becoming, but in all honesty...

He doesn't really mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it got gay out of nowhere
> 
> hit me up @ tumblr, i'm walkerfucker and i draw stuff for this AU too


	3. Crash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's food sitting on the stove and Chris serves him without even batting an eye, and Eddie eats it despite not really wanting to. His excuse would break if he didn't and then that'd be it. What precisely 'it' is, he doesn't know, just that he doesn't want it happening.

"Aren't you going to eat your food, Eddie?"

  
It's strange how suddenly your fingers are just not a part of you anymore. Like your knuckles are just pieces of flesh attached to you by some unknown means but they're not quite yours.

  
"Eddie?"

  
His eyes tear away from his hands what feels like it is excruciatingly slowly, but he's hardly aware of himself as it is. Maybe he's moving too fast, even. It's all possible.

  
"What?" he says and tries not to be too vacant. He swears he heard his stepmom speak but he can't for the life of him remember what she said.

  
"I asked if you're not going to eat dinner," she says and her voice is so timid and so obviously on the verge of breaking down it makes Eddie boil, and he wants to storm out as well. He wants to make a scene; yell and curse and turn red in the face and stand up with so much ferocity the chair knocks over. Be just like dear old dad.

  
But he doesn't. He remains still and blank and his gaze falls down to his untouched food again, goes back to wondering where his hands went, why everything is so slow and blank.

  
His stepmom whispers a small "Alright," as she gives up, one hand nervously grasping the back of her neck and her lips pressed into a thin line. She never cries in front of Eddie, doesn't do much in terms of emotion in front of Eddie because she doesn't know how to handle him -- she's far from being a mother to him and that's the way he wants to keep it.

  
She's as much of a stranger now as she was when she first married his dad a few years ago.

  
He stands up, then, pushes his chair back in and leaves the kitchen table. He doesn't pause at the open archway that used to have a door when his stepmom pitifully demands to know where he's going, failing to sound strict with the way her voice nearly cracks.

  
Eddie ignores her, puts his shoes on and he's out the door. Wandering around the neighborhood when it's dark out is a bad idea, but it's never stopped him in the past. Probably a bad sign to have such disregard for your own well-being, but really what difference would it make if he was mugged, or beat up, or both?

  
He's halfway into town when he realizes there's a chill outside, and also that he's forgotten his jacket. There's no way in hell he's going back, not after leaving like that. He walks as if in a haze, his feet going places out of habit and not because he has a particular goal. The blanket of nothing that covers him is slowly lifting and being replaced with far too much. His throat feels tight and he doesn't know where to go.

  
A little further down across the street a group of loud teenagers are laughing and shoving each other, and Eddie wonders if he's going to end up with a fight on his hands. For some reason or another they leave him alone with hardly a glance as he walks by on the other side. Perhaps they figure the lanky teen isn't worth it with his ratty sneakers and pretending not to be cold in just a shirt.

  
That's fine. He doesn't have his wallet anyway, and all that turns up out of the pockets of his jeans is a very sad looking cigarette. He tosses it onto the road because of course he forgot his lighter, too, sitting pretty back home in his jacket.

  
While his mind was busy drifting off somewhere, Eddie finds he's wandered to a part of town he's not all that familiar with. The houses here are pretty decent looking, at least when it comes to keeping the yards clear of trash. He gets the vague feeling that he's been here before, but wasn't paying attention at the time. Most of the lights are off inside, and as he keeps walking they get a little smaller and look more like the average person could afford living here.  
His feet stop abruptly when he comes to a particular one. This one is especially familiar, and it takes quite a moment for him to figure out why when he glances over at the vehicles parked on the driveway. One of them is a truck.

  
Chris' truck.

  
So that's why this neighborhood seems so familiar: he _has_ been here before. Eddie scratches his forehead with the knuckle of his thumb, wondering if anyone's still awake in there. He wonders if they've had dinner, if they're maybe watching TV, doing whatever stuff you do at this time of night. Too late to do anything of importance, too early to go to sleep. He walks up to the truck and drums his fingers on the hood. It's comforting, somehow. His throat feels less tight and the haze is less imminent.  
When did he get feeling back in his hands?

  
Thinking about his hands makes him remember why he's here in the first place (was there even a reason for _here_ , specifically?) and the tightness comes back with a vengeance. But the numbness that always protects him doesn't show up, because it's less immediate now. He's not in it, he's just thinking and there's that pathetic feeling of getting all choked up.

  
He presses his palms against his eyes, presses hard, like it's ever quelled the panic before. When it doesn't work his hands ball into fists and pull at his hair and he's glaring at the hood of Chris' truck like it's to blame. This is stupid. Why is he breaking down in his friend's front yard?

  
He feels stupid.

  
Right when he's about to slam his fist against the front door of Chris' house he realizes he doesn't remember walking up to it, and right after he knocks on the wood his regret sets in, far too late. Why does he have to be so impulsive? Why is he here? Why does-

  
"Eddie?"

  
Words don't exist and he stands there, mouth lightly agape from panting hard, looking like a total idiot. Chris is staring at him with eyebrows shot up like Eddie's the first and last person he expected to see all at once. Words don't exist and he just barges in because it's fucking cold and he forgot his stupid jacket.  
"What happened? What's going on?"

  
Chris' voice sounds so far away, and there's that stupid concern. Like he notices everything; the red of his eyes, the way he can't seem to breathe right, the vacant stare he directs at everything and nothing. Eddie wonders what he looks like and decides he doesn't want to know. It's probably stupid, just like how he feels. It's probably not even him.

  
"I'm fine," Eddie lies automatically and there's a sigh somewhere. Is that really what his voice sounds like? All flat and dull and nothing. "Got anything to eat?"  
He's not hungry, doesn't even have an appetite but he needs an excuse and it works as well as any. Chris nods and steps into the kitchen and Eddie follows, trying his hardest to not rub his arms for warmth. Any sort of reaction towards anything feels like it'd be wrong, that it'd be too much. There's a desperate need to be perfectly fine without a worry in the world and Eddie's wrapping that idea so tightly around himself he feels like he can hardly move.

  
There's food sitting on the stove and Chris serves him without even batting an eye, and Eddie eats it despite not really wanting to. His excuse would break if he didn't and then that'd be it. What precisely ' _it_ ' is, he doesn't know, just that he doesn't want it happening.

  
"Good?" Chris asks and Eddie nods quietly. Juvenile delinquent he may be but he's not without manners; talking with your mouth full is rude. It probably is good, but he can't really tell because everything tastes like cardboard. It makes his mouth feel dry and his throat is protesting against swallowing it but he shovels it down with determination. Chris is watching him, after all. Have to keep the act up in front of him. Have to be fine.

  
"Look," Chris begins slowly, and he shifts on his feet like he's been sitting on his words since Eddie barged in. He wonders if he's about to get kicked out and anger bubbles in his chest; he's ready to defend himself, ready to summon every harsh word and personal insult he can muster and throw it right in his face, ready to use his fists if he has to. Then he reminds himself that Chris literally just gave him food, and he's probably being irrational. But what if?  
"I know you don't like talking about shit but, seriously man..."

  
Eddie feels hismelf staring in that blank, unreadable way and he hates himself for it, hates how cold it is. Hates how he's so far away and Chris is just right here, acting all concerned. The way he cares is precious to him and all too much all at once. It's never overbearing but it's so watchful, so attentive. Never has Eddie ever once expressed his desire to not talk about his feelings, or what he goes through but Chris just sees it and accepts it.  
How does he do that? Why does he care to do that?

  
"You show up out of the blue in the middle of the night looking like a train wreck-- What happened?"

  
"Midnight?" Eddie echoes, then blinks about the room looking for any clocks. Surely it wasn't midnight? He left the house around eight, it couldn't possibly be that late, could it? The puzzled frown on his face is likely not very encouraging and Chris shifts on his feet again, hands flexing like he doesn't know what to do with them. But he does come closer; stands right next to Eddie where he's sitting at their table.

  
"Sorry, I didn't realize," Eddie says to the plate in front of him. A hand settles on his shoulder and it's the only thing that exists. Everything around him is cold and misty and far away but the hand is warm and present.

  
"It's alright, man," Chris ensures and gives him a pat. It's almost like the motion completely depressurizes him because suddenly Eddie's moving to the side and his cheek's leaning against Chris' gut. A heavy sigh makes his shoulders sag and Chris slides his hand down from his shoulder and onto his arm. It's not quite a hug, but it's comforting.

  
"You can crash here if you want," Chris says after a moment and Eddie nods against his belly.

  
"Okay," he says.

  
"And don't sleep on the floor this time."

  
"Okay."

  
Chris' room looks like what you'd expect from a high-schooler who plays football. There are some personal knick knacks here and there, things that are so specifically Chris and make the room feel less foreign even if he's been here plenty of times before. Eddie sits on the bed staring at the little stuffed pig sitting atop the pillows. It stares back at him with little beady black eyes and he's almost totally mesmerized by the cute little thing. One of its ears are folded inside-out and he reaches to fix it.

Chris enters the room (why was he away?) and he's pulling his shirt over his head as the door closes behind him. The sound of it draws Eddie's attention away from the pig and he watches Chris walk over to the other side of the bed and get under the covers.

  
"You're going to bed?" he asks and pulls one leg up to his chest. He probably went to the bathroom. Figures.

  
"It's past midnight and we have school," Chris replies as he slaps the pillow for the perfect fluffiness. "Just go to sleep, man. Don't have to be weird about it."

  
Eddie makes a face at him and debates saying there's nothing that _isn't_ weird about it, but he knows his friend won't care. Instead he just sits there, arms wrapped around one leg and chin resting on his knee. The lights are off and he feels strangely shy. There's just something particularly intimate about sleeping next to someone as opposed to just around them.

  
After a while, when he thinks Chris has drifted off, he carefully shifts and slips under the covers. It's a little uncomfortable with jeans on, but he can deal with it. He gets as comfortable as possible and sighs once he's settled.

  
"About time," Chris murmurs next to him and he jolts in surprise. He didn't think he was still awake.

  
"What?" he hisses defensively and turns on his side with his back to his friend. "Just wasn't tired."

  
"Alright, sure." It's painfully obvious how easily Chris sees through all of Eddie's bullshit, sees how he continuously refuses to be open about anything, how he's always turning inwards and away from the world. Why does he put up with him? Eddie can't think of a reason for the life of him, but he appreciates it.

  
When Chris slings an arm over his waist and pulls him closer it feels like the whole world convulses around him and his chest drops. Lungs, heart, rib cage and everything settles nicely in his gut and his thoughts short circuit on what to do.

  
"Good night," he murmurs behind him, sleep dusting over his words.

  
Eddie stares wide eyed at the wall ahead of him and mostly thinks about how warm it is. It's like electricity is prodding at every nerve ending in his body but he finds it's not in a bad way. Is this okay? Can you just stay friends if you do stuff like this? Does Chris expect anything?

  
The breathing behind him is slowing down; easing into a steady, calming pace and he's definitely drifting off back there. He doesn't expect anything.

  
Eddie turns his head and buries his face into the pillow. It smells like Chris. His arm is a firm pressure against his side and it keeps Eddie grounded, keeps him still and in one place. There's no animosity to anything, just a gentle innocence without cruel intentions and he's just there, just holding him because he wants to. Just for the sake of it.

  
Eddie inhales thickly and hates and loves it all. Everything around him is Chris and he's thinking there's nowhere he'd rather be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he loves him


	4. Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That why you hit like a motherfucker,” he says after a moment, nodding as if something just fell into place. Eddie just grunts, pondering the meaning of friendship and expressing interest in the lives of others. He thinks about Chris, and is hit with the realization that he knows things about him – little tidbits of his life like how he has a stuffed pig, and how he drives his dad’s truck, and how he has a complicated relationship with his mom, and how Eddie knows all this just by proximity, just by being around him.

It’s cloudy today.

If not for the small blessing of a windless day, it probably would’ve been miserably cold for the jockstraps running around on the football field. They’re practicing, or something. If Eddie would bother to remove his headphones he’d probably hear whatever it was the coach is yelling.

However, Eddie has not been doing much of removing his headphones ever since his stepmom tried to curry his favor by gifting him an mp3. Don’t get him wrong, the gift is greatly appreciated, but he’s far through with the idea of having a mother again – certainly one that’s as much of a pushover as she is – and no offense to the woman but he can’t bring himself to give a damn about her.

He’s practically alone on the bleachers, with the exception of a group of giggling girls further down, and some kids who are likely friends with some of the jocks, or something. They look up at where he’s sitting with limb strewn across two rows (it’s not his fault his legs are ridiculously long), probably wondering why he’s even present.

With another glance at the coach, with his wide gaping mouth and wildly dramatic gestures and the words he can’t hear, Eddie fishes his cigarettes out of his pocket and decides to risk suspension by lighting one. _‘No smoking on school grounds’_ but technically he is not on the grounds he is, in fact, several feet in the air.

A football soars across the field, and someone jumps to catch it. Eddie can’t tell any of them apart when they’re all in the same get-up, and they’re all running around too much for him to catch a glimpse of their names over their backs. One of them stops and looks at him - gives a little wave. The face Eddie makes is somewhere between confusion, an atrocity to mankind, and an ugly physical rendition of ‘the fuck?’.  There’s hesitation in the wave, the lifted hand dropping and a sluggishness coming over to how the guy holds his shoulders, then his hand drops and he jogs away.

That’s when Eddie sees the WALKER over his back and feels like a total dipshit, and also stupid for not realizing. Uncertainty wrestles with his organs for a moment, and his leg starts bouncing and for a brief moment nothing exists but impulsivity and he shoots up on his feet.

“Knock ‘em dead, Walker!!” he yells, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice. Several heads turn his way, smoke from his cigarette goes into his eye and someone’s murmuring. Chris stops and looks at him, and Eddie can’t see for distance and watering eyes but the way the boy dips his head and shakes it before he continues jogging is enough to convey a smile.

Yeah, now he feels a little less like a dipshit.

He stands there like an idiot for a few seconds longer before he remembers people looking at him, and his head snaps towards the offenders and his eyes narrow dangerously. If he’s got anything going for him, it’s his sharp, pale eyes that can easily make someone squirm uncomfortably. It’s a super-power.

“Fuck you looking at?” he barks, fists clenching. He’s not actually itching for a fight, but he has an image to uphold and he hates, _hates_ when people stare at him. They quickly turn their heads away, and Eddie sinks back onto the bench with a grunt, leg resuming its previous bouncing.

After a while, it would seem practice is over and done with. The team of boys gathers in the middle, shoving each other and slapping asses in a display of joyful sportsmanship. Where did the ass-slapping even come from? What the hell. Who invented this.

Just as the team disappears into the gymnasium to hit the showers, raindrops have the audacity to drip-drip-drip down from the sky in a shy trickle. One of them hits Eddie right on the nose and he huffs loudly, looking up just to get another one smack in the eye. He slumps further down where he sits, shoulders up to his ears, stubbornly remaining right where he is while everyone else gets up and leaves to get out of the coming rain.

He closes his eyes and ignores it when it drenches his jacket, and his jeans. Everything sucks yet he does nothing about it, because counter-productivity is Eddie’s forte and god damn if he’s not going to be the most impossible, defiant sonovabitch alive.

“There a particular reason you’re just sitting here getting drenched?”

Eddie looks up and there’s Chris, letterman jacket on and umbrella over his head. His hair’s wet, likely from showering rather than the rain, and there’s a hint of redness to his nose and ears. With a toss of the head, his headphones slip off his head and around his neck, his wet hair smacking against his forehead.

“I was hoping I’d catch a cold, develop pneumonia and die,” Eddie replies without missing a beat. Chris raises his eyebrows, unsurprised, and reaches out with a hand to help him up.

“Yeah, let’s not do that. Come on.”

Eddie regards the hand, and the boy offering it, a pensive expression on his face before taking it and letting himself get pulled to his feet. Chris’ hand feels overbearingly warm in his own cold one, and the way the hold lingers for a moment too long makes it feel like his entire arm is coming off very soon and very fast.

“Your hand is warm,” Eddie comments and wants to shove the entire football field into his mouth so that finally he can just stop saying shit.

“You’re the one who’s cold,” Chris replies and has the audacity to squeeze it, and before Eddie can decide if it’s playful or flirty he lets go and starts making his way down to the ground. Eddie follows him because he really doesn’t have anything better to do. Chris takes him back into the locker rooms, and they’re all empty by now, and he flings a towel at him. Eddie gives him a questioning look, which is rewarded with a shrug.

“Just dry off already, you wet dog,” he says, digging an energy drink out of his backpack to _hydrate and replenish energy after physical activity_. Eddie grumbles something and starts drying his hair off, pretending he’s not shivering from his cold clothes clinging to him.

“Why don’t you do any sports?” Chris asks out of the blue, giving Eddie pause before wiping off his neck.

“I do,” he says, and Chris’ stunned silence is almost tangible.

“What, seriously?”

“Yeah.”

Chris is looking at him expectantly, and Eddie stares right back. There’s a long stretch of silence, and it’s weird, and almost a little funny. A smile tempts at the corners of Eddie’s mouth and he fights against it so hard for reasons he doesn’t care to delve into.

“Care to, y’kno... elaborate?” Chris says, and he doesn’t have any qualms with smiling. The twist of his mouth is crooked, and his green eyes are almost gleaming in the fluorescent light of the locker room and all of that shit needs to stop immediately, because now Eddie feels- He doesn’t know what he feels. It needs to stop, regardless. Stop smiling.

“Counsellor wanted me to channel my aggression in ‘a more healthy way’, so I started hitting bags instead of losers,” he says, shrugging off his jacket to dry his arms off, then clarifies less sarcastically, “I box sometimes.”

Chris sounds out a quiet ‘oooh’ and continues drinking.

“That why you hit like a motherfucker,” he says after a moment, nodding as if something just fell into place. Eddie just grunts, pondering the meaning of friendship and expressing interest in the lives of others. He thinks about Chris, and is hit with the realization that he knows things about him – little tidbits of his life like how he has a stuffed pig, and how he drives his dad’s truck, and how he has a complicated relationship with his mom, and how Eddie knows all this just by proximity, just by being around him.

Part of him wants to get all choked up and another part of him wants to run the fuck away and never come back. Then he wants to slam his head into a locker because he’s getting way too ridiculous over something as simple as having a friend. This is all Chris’ fault.

Fingers snap in front of his eyes, and Eddie recoils reflexively at how close it is to his face. He shoots a glare at Chris, who’s leaning forward with his hand stretched out like a fiend.

“What?” he snarls irritated at this invasion of his personal space.

“I asked if you wanted to borrow my jacket,” Chris says, and Eddie stares at him indignantly.

“Why would I wanna do that?” he asks.

“Because yours is drenched and you’re gonna get sick.”

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

“It’s fine.”

“Alright, just give it back tomorrow.” And with that Chris plops his letterman over his shoulders and Eddie hates having a friend because now he’s doing that whole looking-after-you thing that he keeps falling into and Oh God the jacket smells just like him and it’s really warm and comforting.

“Don’t look too grateful or anything,” Chris says, and when Eddie dares to look at him again he’s smirking and he’s definitely about to pass out or something. This is all way too much.

“Why are you so nice to me?”

The question seems to puzzle Chris, because at first he looks like he’s going to heckle him, but then the sincerity of his voice sinks in properly, the fact that Eddie truly doesn’t get it, and the jock swallows his initial words.

“This again, dude?” he says, and he sounds almost exasperated. “You’re my friend.”

“Why? I’m an ass,” Eddie insists.

“Cool, me too,” Chris says. He’s being deflective, or maybe he’s just sick of it. Or maybe he’s finally had enough of Eddie and his constant back and forth. The boy moves closer, and Eddie would step back if he wasn’t fixed to the ground by some unknown force.

“Look, I get it. You hate yourself or whatever, but I like you just fine, alright?” he says.

Eddie says something dumb. It’s probably just noise. He doesn’t recall.

“Just accept my jacket and let someone be nice to you without pitching a fit over it for once.”

“Uh, okay,” Eddie says, far too stunned to argue, and sticks his arms through the sleeves. His guts are twisting and rolling around themselves.

“You really gotta practice having friends, dude.”

Eddie gives a scoff, the sound meant to be amused but coming out embarrassingly wet, a tired smile over his features. “I have this thing where if I’m not immediately good at something, I don’t do it,” he says.

Chris ruffles his towel-dry hair.

“I think you’re doing fine.”

***

Eddie walks home in Chris’ letterman.

The couch out front is drenched, and Eddie wonders if anything living in it has drowned. He hops over the one missing step before the front door and leans in to press an ear against the door and waits. He counts twenty seconds, and it’s quiet. He opens the door and closes it behind him silently.

He pauses for another twenty seconds, and it’s still quiet. He kicks off his shoes and pushes them up against the wall and heads up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He’s halfway up when a meek voice pipes up in a greeting below, and Eddie curses every angel and every demon and every saint when he looks down at his stepmother.

“How was school?” she asks, that almost-quivering tense smile on her lips.

“Fine,” Eddie grunts, his hold on the railing tightening with restlessness. Just let me get to my room.

“Whose jacket is that?” she asks next, eyes falling on the letterman that’s too big for him.

“No one’s,” he says and bolts up the stairs, ending that conversation. He hopes with all his heart she doesn’t glimpse the WALKER across the back. He hopes with all his heart she doesn’t bring it up during dinner, or at any point in the future.

He hurries into his room and locks the door, then bolts it. He stands there, back pressed against the door, heart in his throat and trying not to let anxiety drag him to hell over fields of glass. He rubs his hands over his face, then wanders over to fall face-first into his bed, burying his face in his pillow and sighing hard.

Curling up on his side, he tugs the jacket closer around himself and stares out the dusty window next to his bed. He can hear plates clinking downstairs, and the sound of the tap running. He sighs again, trying to will away the heaviness pressing down on his chest and takes the jacket off, stuffing it under his bed. Out of sight, out of mind – it’ll be safe there, hopefully.

The pocket of his jeans buzz, and he wriggles around like a drunk caterpillar trying to fish his phone out.

 

                              **From: C  
                             4:17 PM**

**you get home okay?**

 

Eddie swallows around the anxiety and taps out a reply telling him to stop being so fucking concerned all the time, erases it, types a new one that expresses gratitude for worrying, erases that one too, then ends up sending:

                             To **: C  
                             4:20 PM**

**got kidnapped by pennywise the clown**

 

He lays there staring at the dull screen for five entire minutes before it buzzes again.

 

                             **From: C  
                             4:25 PM**

**haha**

 

He absolutely hates how well he can picture his face, hear the chuckle, and is halfway through pulling the letterman back out from under the bed when he catches himself, swears aloud and flops back on the bed, leaving the jacket down there, and lets his phone fall on his face.

He doesn’t think about the time they hooked fingers and said they liked hanging out. He doesn’t think about the time he went to Chris’ house in the middle of the night and stayed over. He doesn’t think about him sleepily mumbling ‘good night’ against his neck and he doesn’t think about when he slung an arm over his waist.

He makes a note to get that fucking letterman out of his house first thing tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back on my bullshit


	5. Shotgun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie always carries himself with such carelessness, like nothing ever catches his attention, like he doesn’t care – seeing him focus so intently on something, even if it’s just a video game, makes Chris’ belly want to do flips.
> 
> It’s really kinda attractive.

There’s a certain emptiness that lingers in the atmosphere of a Saturday morning. The crisp chilly air of October really brings it home, along with the crunchy leaves spread over the pavement, haphazardly tossed about by gusts of wind and crushed by people’s feet.

Chris stares out the window, lazily crunching cereal but not really focusing on eating, watches the younger kids on the block run back and forth in some sort of play. He doesn’t quite catch what the game is, but it seems like some contrived version of tag that involves sticks. He remembers being that young, how exciting Halloween was (to be honest, it’s still pretty exciting) and how he’d eat himself sick on candy. He idly thumbs the sleeve’s hem of his sweater, shoving another mouthful of cereal into his mouth. He wonders if his mom is going to wake up soon, but seriously doubts it. He was already in bed by the time she came home last night, so she’s probably going to be sleeping well into noon.

A loud buzz cuts through the air, grabs Chris’ fleeting attention and drags his eyes over to the counter, where he’d left his phone. He stares at it, feeling a little too comfortable in his kitchen seat to get up. It’s not his fault this is a lazy Saturday morning. It buzzes again, and Chris sighs as he gets to his feet and walks over.

It’s a text from Jesse, one of the guys from football, claiming him and the boys are coming to pick him up in ten. Chris looks down at his boxers and sweater – is that a stain on his shoulder? Ugh. He doesn’t have the time to shower, so he just hurries upstairs, stubs his toe, then throws on his jeans with only a little swearing and hopping. As he digs around various pockets for his wallet he hears a car horn outside.

“Wait just a fuckin’ minute,” he mutters under his breath, finally finding his wallet and keys to the house. He heads downstairs taking the steps two at a time and grabs his jacket off the hook next to the front door. While he straps on his shoes he remembers his phone still lying on the counter and grabs it at the last moment before heading out.

 

“About time, dude!” yells Jesse, practically hanging halfway out the window. The backseat door opens from inside, and Chris spots Kevin absolutely chugging a can with the label scratched off.

“Hey guys,” Chris greets as he gets into the car. Trip is sitting in the passenger seat, grinning mischievously at him while Jesse struggles back into the driver’s seat from his daring leaning out of the window.  “What’s the rush?”

As Jesse hits the gas, Kevin crushes the non-descript can against his forehead and burps loudly. Chris resists rolling his eyes.

“We’re hittin’ the arcade,” he informs him. “Trip bet he could destroy all of us in Street Fighter, so we’re gonna stir up some ruckus like good ol’ boys.”

“Oh yeah?” Chris says, glancing over at Trip and his shit-eating grin, suddenly understanding. “Y’all getting’ all worked up over a video game?”

“It’s bullshit is what it is!” Jesse exclaims from the front. “I’ve kept the high score for weeks! You’re gonna eat shit, Trip.”

The four of them pull up by the arcade, Jesse gesturing violently at Trip as they head inside with Chris and Kevin in tow. It’s packed with kids of all ages, but it’s not as crowded as it gets during the afternoon, so there’s that at least.

Kevin makes a bee-line for the soda dispenser near the entrance and shoves coin after coin into the slot, because apparently he’s never had a drink in his entire life and is going to empty the damn thing. Chris just sticks his hands into his pockets and follows his friends, who make a huge scene out of shoving their way to the Street Fighter arcade. Chris is stuck somewhere between amused and embarrassed over the way Jesse yells “Fuck outta the waaaaay!!” with Trip in a headlock. Mostly amused, though. They’re being completely ridiculous.

He’s content to watch as they choose their fighters, throwing banter at each other before the match, and Kevin rejoins them with maybe ten soda cans in his arms.

“Thirsty or something?” Chris comments with a smirk and a raised brow, and Kevin somehow manages to open one without dropping his entire cargo of carbonated joy.

“I have a craving which needs to be satisfied,” is his reply, and he leans forward while awkwardly curling around all the cans in his arms to take a sip.

“That’s what your mom said!” Trip exclaims and steals one of his sodas, earning him a smack on the back of the head.

 

Two matches pass, and Kevin’s probably on his fifth can when Chris grows bored of just watching. He unfolds his arms crossed over his chest and nudges Kevin. “I’m gonna check out some games,” he says, receives nothing but a shrug, and then goes on his way.

None of the games particularly catch his interest, though some of them have some really impressive sprite work, when he spots a familiar half-shaved head. Chris remembers he still hasn’t gotten his letterman back; in fact he hasn’t even hung out with Eddie in a few days, so he walks up to him and stands there for a moment. He’s playing Mortal Kombat, which isn’t that surprising, Chris supposes. Blood and violence seems his thing.

“Hey Eddie,” Chris greets in an attempt to get his attention, leaning against the unused machine next to the older teen. Eddie doesn’t look up, far too entranced with ripping the spine out of another man’s body to as much as glance at Chris.

“Hey,” he says, finally turning to look at him once the screen declares **_Fatality_**.

“Playin’ games?” Chris says, and the look on Eddie’s face has him immediately regretting saying it for the incoming ribbing.

“No, I’m filing my taxes.”

God damn it.

“My mistake,” Chris replies dryly, and Eddie looks twice as annoyed. It’s at times like these when Chris wonders why he keeps putting up with his shitty attitude and constant bitch face, but then he elbows him in the ribs and says; “Play with me.” And Chris forgets all about it.

It’s fun. Surprisingly, Eddie doesn’t say anything during the matches. He’s totally silent, save for the occasional chuckle or smug “ha” when he wins. But as time goes on he pays less and less attention to the game and more and more attention to how their shoulders are pressed together.  His hands are nearly always in some state of sweaty but now he’s extra aware of it, of how he can’t seem to keep a grip on the joystick, and his fingers keep slipping off the buttons. He keeps glancing over at Eddie, at the way he hardly seems to blink, and the slight crease of concentration between his eyebrows. He can hardly tell the guy’s breathing, his stance is so intense and rigid.

Eddie always carries himself with such carelessness, like nothing ever catches his attention, like he doesn’t care – seeing him focus so intently on something, even if it’s just a video game, makes Chris’ belly want to do flips.

It’s really kinda attractive.

Eddie notices Chris’ lack of attention, made obvious by the fact that his character was just straight up not moving, just bobbing back and forth in its idle animation, and he looks over at him. He catches his doe-eyed staring, and looks a little flustered at the fact.

“What?” he says, trying to sound demanding but instead coming off as bewildered. Chris usually has good things to say. He’s usually quite clever, giving smart well thought out answers to any question thrown his way. But sometimes Chris isn’t smart, sometimes he’s dumb and impulsive.

“You’re cute when you concentrate,” he says.

Eddie looks about ten times as flabbergasted as he did previously, and his mouth hangs slightly ajar in stunned silence. They stare at each other, both of them looking equally surprised at what just slipped from Chris’ mouth. Before them the game’s timer is ticking down, but neither of their characters are moving. Their shoulders are still pressed together and it feels like they’re breathing far too loud.

They’re incredibly close. Chris looks at Eddie’s eyes and he thinks about how pale they are, and how the edges of the irises have a dark, sharp line that serve to make his gaze all the more intense. The near constant crease between his brows is smoothed out from his expression, which has gone from surprise to something much softer. Chris’ heart is fluttering wildly at the bottom of his throat. Sure, Eddie’s trouble, and he’s always angry, and maybe there’s a lot of emotional baggage, but-

 

The two of them jolt apart when someone lets sound a loud whoop, and Chris’ friends show up around the corner playfully shoving each other.

“There you are, dude!” yells Kevin, who boxes Chris on the arm as soon as he’s close enough. He’s grinning, looking quite pleased with himself. “I got Jesse and Trip running for their money so it’s your turn to get your ass beat.” Chris just stares at him, and Kevin’s face falls, then he notices Eddie next to him and he makes a strained face.

“Uh, hey? Uh, Eddie?” he greets uncertainly, like he’s not sure if it’s even appropriate to address him by his first name. Everyone at school just calls him Gluskin, but Kevin is observant enough to know he’s friends with Chris, and that puts him in the weird not-quite-acquaintances limbo.

Trip, however, has a look on his face, and it’s one Chris doesn’t like in the least.

“Hey there Freakskin,” Trip sneers and swaggers over to sling an arm around Eddie’s shoulders, who looks like he’s one second away from tearing his face off at the intrusion. “Put anyone in the hospital lately?”

Chris can feel his hands ball into fists.

“Step off, Trip,” he warns. The jock looks up at him, a bit disheartened at being told off by someone he considers a friend, but unfortunately he doesn’t follow the provided instructions.

“What? It’s just a little friendly teasing, isn’t that right Eddiekins?” he says and ruffles his hair.

“Fuck off, jackass,” Eddie snaps, shoving him with enough force for him to bump into the arcade machine behind him. His face is turning red with anger. “Don’t ever fucking touch me again.”

Trip takes a step forward, opening his mouth to say something in retort but he’s interrupted by Chris grabbing the front of his shirt, yanking him forward to come nose-to-nose with him and all his fury.

“I _said_ step off, Trip,” he seethes, enunciating every consonant with a harshness that’s usually not directed at his friends. Trip and the others obviously didn’t expect him to take Eddie’s side, judging by the surprised looks on their faces. Trip lifts his hands up, trying to act casual but being obviously shaken.

“What the hell, dude? It was just a joke! Take it easy, Chris,” he says, and Chris allows a moment of narrowing his eyes at him before letting go.

“Dude…” Kevin half-heartedly agrees, shifting awkwardly on his feet. Jesse just shoves his hands in his pockets and jerks his head to the side.

“Come on, guys,” he says, then directs his words to Chris; “Let us know when you’re sick of hanging around this piece of work.”

When they leave, Chris can feel Eddie’s eyes on him. Heat crawls up his neck, and not out of anger, and he clears his throat awkwardly.

“So, uh,” he begins.

“I have money,” Eddie interjects, and Chris looks over at him. He appreciates how he doesn’t comment on it, because he doesn’t quite have any words to explain himself.

Actually, he does, but none he dare relay to Eddie just yet.

“Let’s get a burger or something.”

“Sounds good.”

 

They leave the arcade, and when Eddie leads the way towards a red BMW Chris has to stop himself from gaping too much.

“You got a car?” he asks.

“No,” is all Eddie replies with as he gets into the driver’s seat. Chris gets in as well, though with great hesitation when graced with that answer.

“It’s my step-mom’s car,” he continues, having to give the ignition a couple of go’s before the engine actually starts. “She and dad are out of town, so I’m borrowing it.”

Chris blinks, not sure what to make of it. “Okay, first of all, you can drive? Second of all, do you actually have permission to borrow it?”

“Yes to the first, no to the second.” Eddie shoots Chris a grin then twists around in his seat to back out of the parking space and they head off to the nearest burger joint.

“I’m not allowed my own car unless I save up for it myself, or if I ‘prove’ I’m ‘responsible enough’, whatever the hell that means,” Eddie says. Chris hums, not deciding to comment on the fact that he can definitely see where that comes from, but Eddie would definitely not appreciate hearing it.

“Uhm, it was cool of you to tell your friends off,” Eddie says after a long stretch of silence. Chris flusters a little bit, looking out the window and rubbing his neck.

“Don’t mention it, dude,” he replies quietly. “They were being dicks for no reason.”

Eddie scoffs. “I dunno, I kinda have a rep.”

“Yeah, but you’ve never done anything to them. They’re probably just butthurt I like hanging out with you.”

There’s that electricity in the air again, just like before in the arcade, and the two boys just sizzle in Eddie’s step-mom’s car and building after building whiz by them. Chris can count three burger joints Eddie drives by until they’re leaving town with nothing but fields and trees out the window.

“Where are we?” Chris asks, not bothering to ask why Eddie changed his mind about the burgers. Maybe he lied just to get Chris to come with him, but then again he wouldn’t need to do that to begin with – he would always come with if he asked.

Eddie shrugs. “Somewhere,” he says and gets out of the car, clambering onto the hood and fishing his cigarettes out of his pocket.

Chris frowns, not sure if he should be concerned, or puzzled, or neither, but he follows suit and gives a soft grunt as he sits next to Eddie. The silence is comfortable, like it often is between them. Chris points out a cloud that looks like a snapped dick, like a fucking juvenile, and Eddie laughs because he’s just as bad. At this time of year it gets dark early, and the sun’s already beginning to set despite it being little later than afternoon.

 

“Hey,” Eddie says suddenly, like it’s something that’s been sitting on his tongue but has been left unsaid for a reason or another. Chris looks over at him, and Eddie lifts his cigarette meaningfully. “You wanna try?”

Chris lifts an eyebrow at him. What’s he playing at this time?

“Dunno about that, dude,” he says slowly, noting the odd look in Eddie’s eyes, like there’s a particular response he’s looking for.

Eddie sits up taller, takes a deep drag off his cigarette, then places a hand on the back of Chris’ neck. He can feel goosebumps rise up and down his arms.

Eddie draws in closer, gently tugging Chris towards him, and his heart is in his throat.

Their lips press together, and Eddie’s are dry and cracked, and Chris can’t feel his fingers or toes, and he can taste smoke being blown into his mouth. Some distant part of him knows this is shotgunning, but all that runs through his head over and over is _Eddie kissed me_.

He coughs when Eddie pulls away, and he laughs, taking another drag like that didn’t just happen. Chris pushes on his arm, playing along, but he’s not going to pretend something didn’t fundamentally change between them today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first kiss, lads

**Author's Note:**

> highschool au has consumed me lately so here's my cup of dirt please take it


End file.
